Paris Empire

I've Finished!

2009-12-03T16:45:00.003+10:30

Well, I thought the day would never come, but finally, after a marathon writing session this week, I've finished the first draft of Blood of the Heart! I'd always heard that the last chapters of a book often come all in a rush, and mine certainly did (I blogged about my last few days of writing here, at All the World's Our Page.)

I am exhausted, and happy, all at the same time.

And I'm done. For this round. (g)

Today I needed a laugh ...

2009-11-27T11:35:00.000+10:30

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

... and I got one! (g)

The final push

2009-11-19T10:01:00.003+10:30

Holy smokes.

It's 43C today (that'd be 109.4F for those of you north of the equator) and all I feel like doing is turning the airconditioner to "freeze" and sleeping out the day.

But I won't. I can't. I've worked out I only have 5, maybe 6, scenes left to write and my SFD will be done. Finito. But there's a catch - in a mere 15 days, my offspring will be home for summer holidays, and writing with them in the house is just a no-can-do, for me.

Can I do it? Finish this thing in 15 days? I bloody well hope so!

Back to the trenches ...

Butt-glue failure

2009-11-01T23:50:00.004+10:30

181 new words today. That's all. Sigh.

But it was Sunday, and the parents dropping in with cake, donuts and other bribes was a trifle hard to ignore. And it was 35 C , and the steam-cleaning I'd promised the winter mud-smeared carpet on the stairs was well overdue.

There's always tomorrow ...

A new venture

2009-10-15T18:53:00.012+10:30

It's been pretty quite round here. It's all good - I'm still busy typing my fingers to the bone, getting closer to the end of my first draft. Yay!

And a really cool new venture has also been keeping me busy - a shiny new blog that three of my writing buddies and I have just launched, All the World's Our Page. I'm super excited about hanging out with three exceptionally talented writers - Jennifer Hendren, Kristen Callihan and Claire Gregory - who love to yak about all things writing as much as I do. I'll still be blogging here, by the way; but in the meantime, come over and say g'day (or bonjour!) at All the World's Our Page.

I'd love to catch up with you there!

P.S. Did I mention we're giving away books? Lots of them, for the next few weeks. I do love a book giveaway ... pity I can't enter!

Throwing salt over my shoulder

2009-09-23T23:21:00.003+09:30

I've been pretty slack about blogging of late - ok, please don't choke laughing at that understatement - and my role as forum goals mistress has been executed with an appalling lack of application.

I'd like to say why I've been so lax; but call me nuts, I don't want to jinx myself. So, let me just frame this all in the negative - so that karma doesn't up and bite me on the arse - and I'll leave you to read between the lines ...

My writing is NOT going well. [g]

In fact, I did NOT just write 3000 words today that I'm pretty damned pleased with. [bg]

At the rate I'm writing, I will NOT finish this book by the end of the year. [vbg]

So, please excuse my silence. I'm just busy NOT writing a book.

Got my groove back

2009-09-01T19:51:00.004+09:30

Oh, yeah.

3000 words down today, in two hours that simply flew by. And on re-reading, I'm actually happy with most of them ...

I love those days when the writing just flows.

They're rare, but they're gold.

Writing when life has you by the short and curlys ...

2009-08-29T17:02:00.008+09:30

Hi. If anyone is still here to read this blog, I'm just going to get this out of the way ...

I'mabadbloggerandhavesadlyneglectedthisblogbutIhavemyreasonswithwhichIwillnotboreyoubut IwilldobetterIpromise ...

So, I'm still plugging away at this book. It, like this blog, has been sadly neglected these past few weeks. So, I'm wondering, how do you all write when you just don't have the time? And I don't mean no time as in "oh gee, I'd like to write but I have my nails to do, the fridge magnets to re-arrange, the cat's hair to plait" kind of no time. I'm talking about the really hard stuff, the days when you don't know how the heck you're going to come out the other end without going mad or forgetting something vitally important. Like picking your child up from soccer. Cough.

Do you get up at 3am and tap away while slugging down the caffeine? Write like a demon in the spare five minutes you find between those jobs on the "to do" list? Or, like Tess Gerritson, do you simply put the writing aside, do the other things that Must Be Done, and come back later?

Help a struggling (and frustrated!) gal out!

14th of July

2009-07-14T13:02:00.000+09:30

Happy Bastille Day!

Good news

2009-07-03T21:15:00.006+09:30

My dad's OK.

There were a couple of days where his blood pressure was seriously, scarily, low, but it came back up and, after the docs ran every test possible on his ticker, he was declared fit to come home from hospital.

I saw him yesterday. He's not one to complain, not one to talk much about his health, but yesterday, when I asked how he was, he took a sip of his tea, looked down at his hands and quietly said "I thought my time was up."

I'm beyond glad that it was not.

Life: what happens when you're busy making other plans

2009-07-01T17:49:00.014+09:30

(... to hash a John Lennon lyric.)

Two milestones this week.

Yesterday was the last time my daughter and I had the whole day to hang out with each other, just her and me.

Yesterday, after I picked her up from her second to last day of kindergarten, we chatted over cheese sandwiches about the merits of fingerpainting versus painting with toes, painted our fingernails a glittery shade of plum and chopped up vegetables for the evening meal of pumpkin and potato soup. It was a lovely afternoon; I'm glad we had it, for Miss Four can be one Mighty Handful and it was great that our last free afternoon together did not entail any time-outs and revocation of DVD privileges!

Then today; her last day of kindergarten, ever, marked by a five minute graduation ceremony (apple cup cakes and a farewell song) and photos. Then we managed to kidnap her dad away from his work for a celebratory lunch.

And that's it. My sons are home now for school holidays, and then, come July 23, she'll be heading off to school with them. I'm kinda gobsmacked at how quickly this has come about. It seems like just yesterday she was born.

I've been dying for her to get to this point for about a year now (this is one child who is SO ready for school and all it's busyness, it's not funny), but now that it's here ... hmm. I admit I had a tear in my eye today; which rapidly dried when I reminded myself the alternative was for her to stay home with me forever (lunatic asylum, here I come!)

My kids aren't the only one getting older, though; so are my parents.

Today, my dad was taken to hospital by ambulance after suffering chest pains and generally feeling awful. He's in hospital overnight for observation. Hopefully it's just a side effect of the mountain of medication he takes to deal with the triple by-pass he had eight and a half years ago. But, as he said, there's also a chance that once again, his heart plumbing is shot, which means another bout of open heart surgery, pronto.

And life goes on ...

Girls & Grandfathers

2009-06-28T21:32:00.003+09:30

My daughter loves her grandfathers.

Don't get me wrong; in her estimation, her Nannas are pretty cool. Heck, they're the ones who feed her all the shite that I don't dare, who'll let her spray their perfume all over her and her teddy bear, who'll ask "how high?" when she says jump.

But her grandpas - especially my dad - are something special to her. She loves them to pieces, has them wrapped around her little finger and, as you can see from this photo of my daughter and my dad, the old boys don't mind one little bit.

And it's just great.

Seriously Good Book on Writing

2009-06-11T20:42:00.004+09:30

"The Courage to Write: How Writers Transcend Fear", by Ralph Keyes.

The book arrived via Amazon on Tuesday, and I finished it on Wednesday. Not a mention of "show don't tell", or of the perils of overusing adverbs, or the necessity of story arc, etc etc, and damn, is it a good book! It made me realise all the quirky little rituals I've unconsciously employed to psyche myself up to write are in fact quite common, and that being afraid and anxious about writing is not only normal, it is vital. That to be afraid to write is absolutely necessary to produce anything worth reading.

And then he helpfully suggests how to harness and transcend those fears. (Phew!)

Go forth and read it. You'll still have all your writerly neuroses, but at least they'll now make sense!

Write when you least expect it ...

2009-05-30T22:09:00.000+09:30

... to work, that is.

I've been off air for a while. There are many reasons (aren't there always?) - I've been busy with the writing (yay!), even busier with the kids, but this last week I've been busy being sick. Head stuffed with cotton wool then set on fire, sick. Stuck on the couch, feeding the preschooler salt & vinegar rice crackers and Barbie DVDs to keep her off my case, sick.

I'm marginally better today. And, somewhat miraculously for a Saturday, I found myself alone in the house for one whole hour. I did not feel like writing. Not one little bit. I have some great books sitting on my TBR pile, including an excellent beta read I'm part way through (but that's another (really good!) story). Suffice to say, the couch and the books were beckoning. But then the guilts got me. Here I was, with time to write in a quiet house, the very thing I always bitch about NOT having - what kind of hypocrite would I be if I didn't make the most of it?

So I sat down. Typed a paragraph. It sucked. Deleted it. Started again. Still not happy with the para but moved on. And, to my amazement, it all began to flow. I cranked out 1100 words in that hour, not all of them bad. Got my protagonist in the face of my antagonist, with a pistol and a few nifty manouvres with the drapes involved.

It was a lesson I've had before, but needed to learn again.

Just. Bloody. Write.

No matter how many excuses there are not to, just do it. You just might surprise yourself.

I know I did.

The Ruby Oracle

2009-05-02T17:59:00.003+09:30

Today, I finally made it to The Ruby Oracle (their site is under construction, but you should get the picture.)

It's a gorgeous little shop I drive past every day on the run to school, but I'm always too busy to stop and have a browse. Well, I found the time today, and I was not disappointed. It is a Francophile's heaven - Rocco style crystal earrings, bracelets, and necklaces, all made in Paris using 18th century molds, lace parasols, leather gloves, velvet scarves, white linen night gowns ... despite the many temptations, I was very good. Nothing for myself today, but my mother and mother-in-law will have lovely gifts to open next Sunday, for Mothers' Day.

But I did, however, drop a none too subtle hint to my husband about where he should shop if he's ever in the mood to buy me a little, sparkly, something.

FaceBook Manners

2009-04-24T00:33:00.002+09:30

Oh boy, I just LMAO at this ...

Hilarious!

Salad days

2009-04-09T23:19:00.004+09:30

At the moment, my crazy-busy life means my writing looks suspiciously like a yet-to-be assembled coleslaw - little bits of diced carrot over here, chunks of diced cabbage over there, the unifying mayonnaise dressing a long way off being done. Choppy, choppy, choppy!

But my time is limited; it's the best I can do.

Someone pass the salad servers, please!

Crinolines

2009-04-08T12:59:00.000+09:30

My book is set in 1864, about the time the crinoline was nearing its apex as the must have fashion item of the Second Empire. Championed by the French Empress Eugenie, consort of Napoleon III, all the most fashionable ladies wore them beneath their skirts; but crinolines were also popular amongst working class women, with maids and factory girls wearing smaller versions of the huge hoops worn by their wealthier, upper class counterparts. I find the devotion to this fashion accessory absolutely fascinating - they may have made one's skirts look fabulous (and were quite useful for smuggling pigeons beneath whilst traveling by train, a feat attempted by one intrepid crinoline wearer according to the author of Gossip from Paris) but their width placed their wearers at risk of being set alight by lamps, or being pulled into machinery. And many a maid received a scolding (or worse) when her wide skirts knocked over a precious vase.

It seems I'm not alone in my fascination. The Galliera Museum in Paris is currently holding an exhibition devoted entirely to crinolines - SOUS L'EMPIRE DES CRINOLINES. If like me, your schedule is so full (and your purse so empty!) that you simply cannot attend, then head over to Le Canape instead, where you'll find pictures plus a video (in French) of the exhibition. Plenty of crinolines, of course, but also many beautiful gowns, gorgeous silk slippers, and decorated fans to swoon over.

Enjoy!

Bliss!

2009-04-04T20:28:00.007+10:30

I'm beat.

I've been going like the clappers all day; correction, I've been going like the clappers for the past two weeks, with hardly a minute to spare between the tasks that currently are my life.

There are so many things I should be doing right now: writing, responding to a bunch of Forum posts, finishing up a manuscript I'm beta-reading (and I really want to find out how this one ends!), unloading the dishwasher, folding the mountain of washing that glares at me when I dare venture into the laundry. But you know what? I'm not going to do any of those things.

What I am going to do is something I've not done in eons - get into bed at the decadent time of 8.30pm, open up the novel I began last week and read, and read, and read, until I fall asleep.

Ahhh. Bliss.

Female - who'd be one?

2009-04-01T20:47:00.000+10:30

Nineteenth century contraception was recently discussed over on the Compuserve Books and Writers Forum. It's a fascinating topic, one I've researched in depth in order to convincingly (I hope!) write the main character of my book, a nineteenth century physician who practices in the slums of Paris and sees the grim reality of the lives of working class mothers and their children.

In nineteenth century Paris, nothing really worked as far as contraception was concerned, especially not for poor women. Condoms were very expensive (about 50 centimes, more than twice the price of a loaf of bread) and were negatively viewed as the accoutrement of prostitutes. The rhythm method was not widely known, and many who practiced it incorrectly believed a woman's fertile time was during menstruation. Cervical sponges soaked in lemon juice were a little more effective, but overall the most commonly used method to control fertility was coitus interruptus; which, human beings being only human, was highly unreliable.

For many poor, working class women an unwanted pregnancy was a catastrophe. If a mother was unable to work due to pregnancy or while recovering from childbirth, she inevitably lost her job. This in turn threatened her survival and that of any existing children. And without a sufficient family income, how was an extra mouth to be fed?

Miscarriage frequently solved this dilemma. Common amongst working class women, miscarriage was caused by malnutrition or by diseases such as syphilis, small pox, typhoid, cholera, measles. Industrial toxins also played a role, with many female factory workers miscarrying from exposure to mercury, phosphorous, antimony or lead.

But for those women who did not miscarry, and for whom yet another pregnancy would push them and their families into grinding poverty, abortion was the terrible yet logical answer. The fact it was a crime did not deter; nor did the bizarre and dangerous methods employed by abortionists. White wine brewed with absinthe and rue was a commonly prescribed but mostly ineffective abortificant. Yew, savin, and ergot were also used, but were of such toxicity that even the slightest overdose would result in the death of the mother. The most common, and most effective, method of abortion was the injection of liquid (usually hot or cold water) into the uterus, sometimes with irritants such as soap. Unsurprisingly, many women who sought the services of an "angel maker" died as a result.

The sad tale does not end there. The babies of those women for whom abortion was not an option, or for whom the procedure simply did not work, were sent to wet nurses within days of their birth. In fact, there was a thriving business in exporting babies to wet nurses in rural areas outside of Paris, with menuers and midwives acting as intermediaries to place babies with wet nurses - for a fee, of course. Cartloads of newborns were sent off to the countryside where many subsequently died of malnutrition, disease, or plain old neglect (wet nurses could have as many as half a dozen babies to care for and feed at once.) A report of 1866, cited in "Metro Stop Paris", gives a chilling description of the journey these babies set out on:

"I have never travelled on the roads of the Perche without being overcome with emotion, seeing these huge meneurs' wagons in which nurses and nurslings returning from Paris are piled in pell-mell like animals returning from market. This revolting vehicle in known aptly as a Purgatory."

Another option for mothers unable to care for their babies was "le tour", a small, revolving door in the wall of the convent of the Daughters of Charity, the order established by Saint Vincent de Paul in the 1600s. Mothers would place their babies in le tour (occasionally with a note that named the child or explained the circumstances of their abandonment, but not often), ring the bell, then leave. This practice went on from the mid-1600s to 1863.

In an effort to alleviate all this suffering, charitable creches were established in Paris to care for babies and thus enable their mothers to continue to work without giving up their children. Public Assistance was also available but, for a great deal of the nineteenth century, welfare was tied to marital status - only single mothers threatening to abandon their newborns, or threatening suicide, were eligible - and the bureaucratic wheels turned slowly, so it was often weeks before any aid was actually received.

All rather depressing, isn't it?

It makes me marvel at the strength of the women who had so many babies and somehow continued to work for the pittance that was barely enough to keep their families alive. It also makes me grieve for those women and their babies for whom abortion or abandonment was the only option for survival.

But above all, it makes me feel profoundly grateful to live in an era in which women - not all women, but many more than ever before- have the ability to decide whether or not to bear children.

If you're at all interested in this topic, I highly recommend POOR & PREGNANT IN PARIS by Rachel Fuchs, and METRO STOP PARIS by Gregor Dallas.

Mea culpa

2009-03-22T21:32:00.004+10:30

Hi.

My name is Rachel.

I am a blogger.

One who fully intended the title of her blog to reflect its content. Not been so good at that. I am fully aware I could be sued for false advertising.

But this will change. First step is my new goal: to post a tidbit about nineteenth century France each week (or as close to that as I can get.)

Stay tuned ..

November Rain

2009-03-08T10:27:00.010+10:30

My Life in Itunes

OK. I was tagged for this a while ago by Jen and Claire. To answer each question, one is supposed to put the old ITunes on shuffle, and click to get the answer. Let's see what happens ...

IF SOMEONE SAYS 'ARE YOU OK?' YOU SAY ... High Havoc (Corduroy). Too true!

HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOURSELF? You've got to hide your love away (The Beatles) Aw, poor me!

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL? In Between Days (The Cure). Shemales, I'm thinking?Cough. Not quite my cup of tea. (g)

HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY? Hey Ya! (Outkast) It's Sunday, so that's pretty accurate!

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE? We Believe (Red Hot Chilli Peppers). In what? God? Santa? In my constitutional right to use the computer without being interrupted by children? Grumble ...

WHAT'S YOUR MOTTO? Song for Guy (Elton John). I give up. No idea what that means.

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU? Someday we'll know (New Radicals) ... 'what planet she's from', is the ending most friends would choose, I think. (g)

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU? You and Me Song (The Wannadies). Kinda creepy, that.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN? The Bucket (Kings of Leon). Very existentialist thinker, I am! (g)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND? Crumbs from Your Table (U2). LOL! My poor husband.

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY? Black Dog (Led Zeppelin). Oh. Boy. At least it's not Winston Churchill's 'black dog'; well, most of the time.

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP? Window in the Skies (U2). Hmmm, remind me to check that it was sugar I put in my coffee this morning ...

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL? Rio (Duran Duran). LOL! That'd be awesome. And so much better than 'Ding Dong, the Witch is dead.' (g)

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST? Feel (Robbie Williams). Yup, that's me on the bus, brushing up against you in a most inappropriate way. Eeew!

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST FEAR? Robinson Crusoe (The Art of Noise). Aaaargh! Not a shaggy, shipwrecked man! Anything but that!!

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET? Mannish Boy (Jimmi Hendrix) Oh God. I knew I should have shaved this morning.

WHAT DO YOU WANT RIGHT NOW? Son of a Preacher Man. (Dusty Springfield) Oh lordy (fanning herself and reaching for her mint julip).

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS? Scar (Missy Higgins). Did I mention I am a trifle anti-social?

WHAT WILL YOU POST THIS AS? November Rain (Guns n' Roses) WTF is that crap doing on my Itunes?!

Ending on that note ...

Dig deep

2009-02-09T21:28:00.006+10:30

I'm shocked at the horror that has engulfed Victoria. 130 people killed in firestorms, with talk that that number could climb as high as 230. Families burned to death in cars, trying in vain to outrun 100 metre high fire fronts. Hundreds of people injured. Thousands without homes. I cannot even begin to imagine the pain and loss of my fellow Australians, just across the border.

The Australian Red Cross has set up a special donations appeal. Here's the link. '

It's the only way we can help.

Oh, enough already!

2009-02-05T22:54:00.002+10:30

Tomorrow's max has been upgraded from 40C to 43C (110F).

That means more power failures, plus the guaranteed failure of my aircon by midday.

No writing will be done. Nothing will be done, except for sweating like a Scandinavian in a sauna.

A 12 hour long sauna.

Sheesh.

Some like it hot ... but not this little black duck

2009-01-29T21:05:00.006+10:30

Seeing as my manuscript, and my blog, purport to be somewhat connected with nineteenth century Paris, I'd planned to blog along those lines this week; then ... BA-BAHM. Nope. I'm sitting on my butt in the middle of an antipodean heatwave, and try as I might, I just cannot transport myself from my sweltering, 43C (110F) bastard of a day, to nineteenth century, autumnal Paris. We have at least another, whole, goddam week of this shite, saddled with an aircon that only works until around midday, then goes on strike. Little Aussie bleeder that it is.

Insanely hot weather is really weird. I jumped in the shower three times today (all ablutions done under three minutes, as per our drought-breaker shower timer). I turned on the cold tap only, and it ran hot for half my shower. My shampoo and conditioner were reduced to a molten slick. And when I jumped out, I kid you not, I air-dried in under three minutes. No towel required.

Then there's the bugs. The usually reclusive spiders that descend from pergola beams by their webs en masse, to catch any puff of air - I have to navigate through this icky mine-field to get to the garden hose, and when I water the plants, the bees and wasps swarm about the hot stream of water from the hose, trying to get any drip of moisture they can.

At least we haven't had a snake under the front door, like we did last year.

And thank goodness the kids think its a hoot. Money in their pockets to buy iceblocks from the school canteen; dinner at the local cafe, since the temp in our kitchen was 35C today. Going to bed soaking wet from the bath ...

Writing? Ha. I'm amazed the lap top hasn't melted. But while words on the page have been beyond me the last couple of days (and probably will remain so until the heatwave is over) I did manage a little bit of plotting. A silver lining to the cloud.

Now, if only it was a rain cloud ...

Pre-loved scenes

2009-01-19T23:37:00.001+10:30

A question for those of the writerly persuasion ...

A couple of days ago I came to a spot in my MS where I'd already written the next scene I needed. I wrote the scene a long while ago (maybe a year), and much about my characters and plot has changed since then. But being lazy, I thought I'd re-hash the existing scene instead of starting afresh, and see how it went.

Not well, is how. There were bits of the old scene I liked, but I found it a chore to tweak and change it to reflect all the changes that have happened. And once it was done, it was forced, flat, not right.

So I left it, mulled over it - and decided to scrap it. Yesterday, I started with a blank page, came back at the scene at a 180 degree angle, and it was much better. Much, much, better.

I can't help but be a bit dismayed by the time and words I lost in this process (and my writing time at present is very limited indeed!). But I guess it's like baking - if you add plain flour when you really need self-raising, if you only put in two eggs when you need three, no amount of tweaking the recipe is going to save that cake. Better to lick the beaters and start afresh; but maybe that's just me? What do you do? Recycle the scene, or start from scratch?

Writing like a speed dater

2009-01-09T17:15:00.002+10:30

Ten minutes on the keyboard here, another ten minutes there ... my writing experience at present is much like speed dating. I sit down, smile, spew out as many words as possible, then - ding! - it's time to move on, to the other things that are taking up 99.9% of my time - driving kids to their friends', to doctors appointments, to the pool, to the beach, to the movies, to get their hair cut, to get the new school shoes; doing the never-ending, god-awful loads of washing; doing the never-ending, god-awful grocery shopping; dishing up three meals plus snacks every day, then cleaning up after the little barbarians that pass for my kids.

Sigh.

I CANNOT wait to have some serious time with my book. An evening of getting reacquainted - slowly, no rushing - is much needed!

What I see when I write

2008-12-18T23:23:00.009+10:30

The gum trees that are valiantly struggling on despite two years of near drought
Black Hill (looking more golden-brown as the sun sets)
Across the river

Some days (like today) it is a miracle I get any writing done, with all that to distract me.

Bookwormed!

2008-12-17T13:41:00.005+10:30

I got tagged by Jen. I should be writing, but I'll count this as my warm-up. (g)

The idea is to pick the closest book to you, open up to page 56, copy down the fifth sentence, then the next 2 - 5 sentences. Then, do the same with your own MS.

Here it is!

The book closest to hand is FIGURES IN SILK, by Vanora Bennett. Et voila, page 56 -

"She'd hardly ever been in her own father's storeroom. It was his holiest of holies; too precious for children, he said.

She padded down the corridor behind her mother-in-law, secretly impressed; willing Alice Claver, now fiddling with the keys at the door, to learn to like her.

Alice Claver's warehouse stretched all the way along the side of her house: a vast barn of a place, its high rafters lit up by slanting early sunlight from the window slits.

It took a few moments for Isabel's eyes to adjust. Then she gasped."

Ooh, cliff hanger!

Now, from my MS (and this will NOT be my page 56 when the thing is done - I have a whole new idea for how this book will open (funny about that (wry grin)) - but here it is, as it stands:-

"Lewis would be caught in a tangle of half-composed, addle-brained lies - or worse, would blurt the whole nasty truth - and then my darling father would know it was he, and no one else, who had caused it.

My pulse ticked in my throat. I had to stop my brother. Now.

Dropping my bag to the floor, I gripped the woman's meaty shoulders and shoved her through the door of the vacant compartment. Her shrieks drowned those of her parrot."

LOL. Sounds like something from an absurdist play! I swear it makes sense in context. (g)

Now, I tag Jenny, Nina, and Claire, if she's up to it.

Things to do when one is an invalid

2008-12-15T22:10:00.007+10:30

Surfacing from a rotten bout of a rotten virus that's had my temp up and down like a yo-yo, and my throat feeling as if I'd swallowed a roll of barbed wire. Fun. Not.

All I've been capable of is looking at pretty things on the internet, like the pics on this wonderful blog, Paris Parfait.

Go have a look. It's nice and sparkly and shiny, and makes me feel a whole lot better just looking at it.

Submerging again, to wallow in sickness like a Victorian spinster.

When I go to Paris ...

2008-12-05T12:12:00.010+10:30

Note I said "when", not "if". (g)

I will get there, some day. But for now, I must content myself with wallowing in blogs about all things Parisian, all things French, like that of David Lebovitz , an acclaimed pastry chef who blogs about Paris and its food.

Today's post is about chocolate; not just any chocolate, mind, but the chocolate made in the laboratory of Jacques Genin, "the most elusive chocolatier in Paris".

Excuse me while I wipe the drool from my keyboard ...

Time flies ...

2008-12-03T23:22:00.003+10:30

I was tooling around with photos today, adding ones sent to me of Child #1's 1oth birthday, and it struck me - just when did my 9lb 10oz baby turn into this?

Christmas List

2008-12-02T17:07:00.010+10:30

Tagged by Carol and Deniz; and I'm being highly original and tagging the rest of the M:A gang ...

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? Wrapping paper. I like to watch others rip.

2. Real tree or artificial? Fake, fake, fake. Like Deniz, we have a Christmas tree-scaling cat, and plastic tree = no mess.

3. When do you put up the tree? After my son's birthday, on 30th November. Haven't quite got there yet.

4. When do you take the tree down? It has been known to still be standing in February. Working on that.

5. What do you do with your tree after you take it down? Try to shove it back in the box from whence it came. NEVER fits.

6. Favourite gift ever received as a child? A shiny, lime-green bike. Hey, it was the '70s!

7. Hardest person to buy for? My brother. An electronic engineer who takes fussy to a whole new level. And I drew him again in our family Kris Kringle this year, dammit!

8. Easiest person to buy for? My daughter. She's four, and still loves anything that comes wrapped up with a bow.

9. Do you have a nativity scene? Yes, a ceramic one, which the children have hammered. Joseph's beard has snapped off, Mary will no longer walk without a limp, and none of the wise men have heads. Time for a new one, methinks.

10. Mail or email Christmas cards? Mail, email, text message - whatever works!

11. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? A "Casey and the Sunshine Band" cassette tape. I still bear the scars.

12. Favourite Christmas movie? Home Alone.

13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? After Child #1's birthday. So any day now. Yikes!

14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? Nope.

15. Favourite thing to eat at Christmas? Prawns with lemon juice and tartar sauce. Mmm.

16. Lights on the tree? No - my children would find a way to burn down the house with them in thirty seconds flat.

17. Favourite Christmas carol? Silent Night.

18. Travel at Christmas? Apart from two family members, all my family lives in the same city. "Travel" on Christmas day just involves suburb-hopping. Nice!

19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer? Not a chance!

20. Angel on the tree top or star? Does a porcelain cat, with gold wings, halo and harp, count as an angel? (g)

21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? Since Father Christmas still visits our house, definitely the morning.

22. Most annoying thing about this time of year? I think the saying "you can choose your friends, but not your relatives" sums up my position on this quite nicely.

23. Favourite ornament theme or colour? Red, silver and white.

24. Favourite for Christmas dinner? Since it's usually way too hot for traditional Christmas fare Down Under, I look forward to fish - snapper rubbed with lemon butter and stuffed with wild rice is sooo good.

25. What do you want for Christmas this year? New pyjamas so I no longer terrify the neighbours when I go out to collect the morning papers; and, of course, books. :-)

It has begun ...

2008-11-27T13:10:00.004+10:30

The Christmas shopping, that is.

Well, technically, I haven't yet started mine. But I ventured out to my local shopping mall this morning with Child #3, to purchase some filler gifts for Child #1's upcoming birthday, and it seemed as if the words "credit crunch" had never been uttered. The ocean of dazed shoppers! The assault of Christmas "musak" upon my ears! The smell of burning plastic as credit cards were swiped at the speed of light!

Ok, it wasn't that bad - I didn't curl into the fetal position in the middle of K-mart. But gift shopping is a chore for me at the best of times; Christmas shopping is like digging trenches in the Siberian salt mines.

I guess it's because my kids are definitely past the age where playing with the wrapping paper and box is the best part of receiving gifts - now, what gifts to give them is the question that does my head in, as there is a veritable plethora of crap available for kids these days. And the adults for whom I must buy are not any easier; they're either (a) fussy as hell, (b) already have everything that opens and shuts, or (c) a scary combination of both.

What to do, to ease my Christmas shopping panic? Well, the one place in which I can happily, blissfully, shop for hours on end, is a book store. Funny about that. (g) So I've made an executive decision - books will feature heavily, if not exclusively, on my gift list this year, for kids and adults alike. Broaden their minds, do my small bit to ease the publishing industry's financial woes, and leave me with all my hair in tact.

Sounds like a plan!

9000 words

2008-11-19T20:17:00.011+10:30

That's my word count so far this November, and I'm absolutely amazed - in a good way! Ok, it's small change compared to what other writers are able to pump out, but for me it's a freakin' avalanche of words. And it's got me wondering ... what's up? How is this possible?

Well, there are many answers to these questions. A few jump to mind immediately:-

- I've been writing for a good two years now, and all that practice is starting to pay off. The words come easier than they did during the hair-pulling extravaganzas of my early writing days.

- My youngest child is off at kindergarten several hours each week now, which means more writing time for mum.

- And after employing the trusty index card method (and thanks to Claire for that!), plus re-doing my rough-as-guts synopsis a couple of months back, I've finally got the bones of this story worked out. Which, for this firmly linear writer, makes all the difference. I know where I'm going with this tale, and it stops me veering off into the wilderness (but this doesn't mean that I don't have many surprise detours and developments - I do, with each and every scene I write, which I absolutely love.)

So, ok. Some good reasons for my productivity increase. But I think it goes deeper than that.

In fact, I know it does.

See, about three months ago, when my youngest turned 4, it hit me that I had one year left before she started school, after which my days between 9am and 3pm would become child-free. Mine, to do with as I pleased. As much as the thought of sitting on my arse reading all day has its appeal, I knew I'd go bonkers staying home doing nothing more productive than emptying the dishwasher and vacuuming the cat. I knew that come August 2009, I'd need to find me some bona fide employment; to keep me sane, to feel like I was contributing to the world in some small way.

This scared the living daylights out of me. I've been home with the kids for ten years now - it'll be eleven by the time Child # 3 starts school. What to do? I'm so out of the loop of the law that if I went back to that, I'd be sued for malpractice within a week. And other options are thin on the ground; with DH's job taking him away from the home front on a very regular basis, I need something that fits in school hours and allows me to be home for the kids.

So I took a deep breath and thought - time to get serious about this writing.

Do you want to be a writer, a real, proper, earn-your-bread-through-your-words, writer? Well, do ya, punk? (g)

I said yes. And that's when I decided to start treating my writing like a job.

I vowed to write every day (I'm sticking to this mostly, bar DH's 40th birthday celebrations -I'm no Stephen King, cannot write with a hangover.)

I vowed to set myself a daily word count to meet, as opposed to just blithely saying "Oh, I'll write for a hour or so ..." (thanks to the brilliant Ms Vicki Pettersson for that piece of advice; and thanks to the wonderful M:A gals for keeping me to that particular goal this month.)

I vowed to let alone my opening chapters and avert my eyes from them until revisions (and boy, was that hard but so bloody liberating!)

And I want to ... no, WILL have this SFD done by then end of April 2009.

I'm still scared. But at least these days, when I head to the study, I tell my DH I'm "off to write", rather than "I'll be doing some typing now", as I used to say. (g) This is serious business, after all.

So, there it is.

Wish me luck.

The Library, Thailand

2008-11-09T18:56:00.002+10:30

So, my dream holiday would involve a month ... or two ... or three, in Paris.

But a close second would be The Library Resort in Thailand. White sand and loads of books ....

Sigh.

What more could a gal want?

Grumpy Old Women vs Road Rage

2008-11-06T22:04:00.004+10:30

In a few short hours, I will turn 37.

I have been with my DH for 18 years. I have friends I can say I have known for 10 years, 15 years, and a handful who have known all my dirty little secrets for 25. Ample evidence of my impending dotage, you say.

But it was a near rumble in the carpark of my local supermarket last month that really brought home my advanced age.

I'd just finished the weekly flagellation that is grocery shopping with Child # 3, my 4 year old. Loaded her, and the mountain of crap that my family of five consumes each week, into the 4-WD people mover. Cranked the beast into life, chucked it into reverse - only to be blocked in by the pimped-up, bitumen-scraping, doof-doof music mobile that screeched to a halt behind me.

The window of the offending vehicle slid down, revealing its barely adult, male, driver who sported enough bling to burn out my retinas, and his similarly attired side-kick. They looked REALLY pissed. They looked, in fact, like two enraged bull ants. They began yelling - not at me, but at a guy who'd just pulled into a parking space two along from mine - Captain Solo, I shall call him.

The bull ants and Captain Solo proceeded to engage in a heated debate, right there in the Woolworths car park.

First topic - who cut off whom back out on the roadway, and therefore deserved to die;

Second topic - who should depart post haste to their country of origin, the bull ants being of Italian extraction, Captain Solo looking kinda Chinese.

Thus it went, for a minute or two. Captain Solo, even though out-numbered, would not back down. To the bull ants, this was akin to a slight aganst their (barely-there) manhood. They leapt from their car and swarmed towards the Captain.

This is when I got grumpy. Serious, eye-rolling, "I-don't-fucking-believe-this" grumpy.

This did NOT happen in my sleepy little suburb.

This did NOT happen in the presence of my four-year-old.

This did NOT happen when I had frozen goods slowly thawing out in my car!

I clicked on the central locking (hey, the red-mist was not that thick that I didn't remember to do that), opened my window, and yelled like the mother-of-three that I am:

"You had all better settle down, RIGHT NOW, or I'm calling the cops! We don't need this shit around here. Bugger off and go home!"

Not so eloquent - but it did the trick.

The piano player stopped mid-tune. Tumbleweeds rolled on by. Several pairs of eyes swivelled my way.

The bull ants stopped and gaped. Then dropped their eyes to their shoes.

"Sorry," they mumbled. Then jumped back in their car and peeled out of the carpark.

And since I once was a lawyer, didn't I just follow them down the road for a few kilometers, just to make sure they really were outta there, and to take down their number plate. (g)

Never would I have done this in my 20s. But I'm a realist. I know it was not a show of heroism. I was just plain cranky. But as I get older, I see that cranky has its place. Maybe it's the fact that the older you get, the less time you have on your side. You just don't have the tolerance for crap that you once would have had.

I don't know.

But I tell you, it felt damn good to scare off two punks simply by impersonating their mothers. (vbg)

High Tea

2008-11-02T22:25:00.003+10:30

I just had a wonderful Sunday arvo.

My oldest and best friends, Bec and Kristen, kidnapped me and took me out for High Tea as an early birthday present, at Newmans, a gorgeous camellia and azalea nursery (and ok, we skipped the tea and drank pink bubbles but still ...) Two fabulous gals, who, after all the little scones and sandwiches with the crusts cut off, took me shopping and convinced me to buy a dress I never would have - and damn, isn't my DH glad they did (g).

Lovely to do something out of the norm.

And just be a girly girl, for a few hours.

Nineteenth century manias

2008-10-29T22:55:00.006+10:30

Child #1 is addicted to collecting Dr Who cards - and, rather weirdly, his finger nail clippings (although I think the latter is more about grossing me out than a serious hobby).

Child #2 collects marbles. And child #3's vice is caterpillars. Dead ones.

All a little bit odd. But hey, they're my kids, they can blame their kooky genetics, so who am I to cast the first straight jacket?

However, I was recently leafing through a wonderful old tome, GOSSIP FROM PARIS (for the third time - the book is just like a nineteenth century version of People magazine) and I'm feeling a little relieved. Some of the collection and hobby fads of nineteenth century Paris make my kids seem very, well, normal.

Such as:-

"Potichomani" - the transformation of plain old glass jars into glazed works of art;

"Seal collecting" - not the collection of flippered sea-mammals, but of the wax seals of royals and celebrities (Victor Hugo's seal apparently bore the motto "faire et refaire", sound advice for a writer!);

Pottery and china - the more avid collectors were known to cover every square inch of their walls, and ceilings, with soup tureens, saucers, tea cups and plates; and

Autographs. Not so unusual, you say. Except that the briskest trade was done in the exchange of autographs of convicted murderers. Apparently, the autograph of President Lincoln's murderer, John Wilkes Booth, was the big time.

The more things change, the more they stay the same ...

Mission: Accountability

2008-10-26T18:16:00.005+10:30

So, the esteemed Jennifer Hendren had the brainwave of setting up Mission:Accountability.

There are fourteen of us so far, and our mission is to put our writing goals out there and make sure we all stick to them. There'll be cheering when goals are met, "punishments" when they are not. (g) But overall, it's a great way to get serious about writing. The last month or so, I've been making a real effort to write 600 words every day. Been making that goal most of the time, but I'm hoping that Mission:Accountable will give me that kick in the pants to hit that goal every day.

Wish me luck!

"It's only the beginning ..."

2008-10-26T14:09:00.013+10:30

My dear, never-finished, First Act,

I sat down to write today, and my iTunes random playlist coughed up a dust-covered tune from 1991- Deborah Conway's It's Only the Beginning.

It's only the beginning

But I've already gone and lost my mind

I feel like making daisy chains

And playing hide 'n' seek

When it's only the beginning

The fairy dust is still in flight

And this could be the love of a

lifetime, even if lasts a week

Or maybe just a daydream ...

I listened to those lyrics in stunned, sweaty silence; for, my dear First Act, they could have been written for us.

We have a toxic relationship, a sick co-dependency, you and I. Oh, I can hear you tutting beneath your breath - "How dare she watch Dr Phil when she should be writing ME!" But whatever psycho-babble label you wish to apply, it is clear that you are my addiction, my vice, and for the sake of the manuscript, not to mention my sanity, I must break free of your seductive clutches.

Oh, but you're a hard habit to break. The intoxication of finishing you for the first time is still such a sweet memory. You were complete, you were just as I had envisioned you would be, and you were perfect. The time had come for us to part. I felt a pang at letting you go, but you were strong, you would be fine without me.

But you would not let me go. You hounded me with frantic whispers, day and night - you'd fallen apart; your meticulously woven tapestry of elegant prose now resembled a moth-eaten dish rag; your plot, once water-tight in its logic, now leaked credibility like a sieve. You would be so, so much better if only I'd come back, you sobbed. If only I'd re-write you.

Ego stroked, I dumped poor Act Two like a hot potato and back I went. I could not ignore you - you were, after all, my first love.

So I tinkered with your opening chapters. Started in medias res, started with dialogue, started on a train, started with a fight, started in Paris, started in London, started with the villain doing his evil worst ... Every time I'd come close to finishing, convinced that this time I'd got you right and I now had the perfect beginning, you'd lay on the guilt - "Don't leave me! I'm a much better First Act when you're around. Stay, and make me perfect." So I re-wrote you again, and again, and again, adding and subtracting scenes like a woman possessed. And maybe I was. Possessed with the notion that I must write the perfect first act before I could move on.

But the scales have fallen from my eyes. I know now that you are my crutch; that I will never move forward if I keep working on you; that I will never finish this manuscript if I keep working on you; that I will never, ever, have to discover whether I can actually write a whole damn novel, if I kept working on you.

So I'm breaking up with you until the book is done.

Aw, don't cry. It's not you - it's me.

You'll be fine, my brilliantly flawed First Act. You're stronger than you think. And I'll be back when it's time for revisions.

But for now, it's a definite "adieu".

Serenity now ...

2008-10-23T18:56:00.003+10:30

I've been flying solo with the three kids all week.

Hubby's been away. Conferencing. At a schmick resort. With harbour cruises. And champagne. Hmm ...

But now he's home. And he's sent me off to write. A glass of wine has just been delivered to my desk, and as I type he's downstairs doing the yelling (cough) disciplining.

Kinda reminds me why I married the guy ...

Blood of the Heart

2008-10-19T22:40:00.002+10:30

So, about this book of mine ...

I started it about two years ago. I wrote a chapter that will never see the light of day, but it was the first fiction I'd written since I was a teenager and even though it was terrible, it felt good.

Really good.

Now, after many twists and turns (not to mention the bouts of hair-pulling and self-doubt) I'm reasonably confident about what my story actually *is*, and have some hope it'll be something others will want to read.

Set in 1864, and with the working title of BLOOD OF THE HEART, it's an historical mystery, of the suspense sub-genre, with a side-serve of romance and a generous helping of the oddities and extravagance of mid-nineteenth century Paris, and nineteenth century medicine.

My main character, Isabel Knight, is an Englishwoman in need of no one and nothing but herself and her ambition. A newly-minted physician fresh from medical school in America, she dreams of becoming a surgeon; quite an oddity herself. She accompanies her father to Paris, the global centre of medical advancement, where she has the rare opportunity to further her clinical experience.

But she has a secret. She's suffered a trauma her conscious mind cannot fully recall. Her body knows exactly what happened, however, and the result is that she has lost her nerve with the scalpel. She simply cannot cut.

But this soon becomes the least of her worries. Her attendance at the birth of a child leads her to form an uneasy partnership with a Parisian midwife - a sage femme - who has secrets of her own, secrets that seem to link her with the mutilated bodies of urchins that begin to appear on the streets of the slums of Paris. When the midwife is also murdered, Isabel comes face to face with the real killer - but it is she, in the wrong place at the wrong time, who the police suspect.

On the run from the authorities and the killer, Isabel follows the scant clues to Daniel Ricard, the young owner of champagne vineyards in Epernay. Together, Isabel and Daniel must unravel a mystery that takes them from Daniel's murky past, to the court of Napoleon III and the intrigue surrounding the French conquest of Mexico, and finally, into the clutches of a sadistic serial killer.

With Daniel, Isabel stands to discover the truth of the trauma that her mind has erased, and to learn that love and vocation are not mutually exclusive - that is, if they ever make it out alive.

Da-da-daaaah! (g)

So, that's it. I'm slogging through the first draft, and I'm sorry to say that even after two years, I'm not all that far into the thing. I've got all my scenes sketched out on index cards, and I recently broke down the whole thing into four acts - only to find I'm just three-quarters of the way through Act 1. Gah! My life is busy - three kids will do that to a person (g) - plus I have chopped and changed directions with this book A LOT. But the main reason for my lack of progress is the opening of the book. Or, to be precise, the multitude of ways there are to open a story. And the temptation I have to write them all.

But I'll talk more about that particular little death-trap later ...

Bonjour!

2008-10-18T20:57:00.002+10:30

I kinda feel like I'm talking to an empty room, but here goes ...

Cos all the cool kids are doing it, and cos I'm seriously addicted to all my writing mates' blogs, I thought I'd better stop being a major voyeur and put myself out there.

So, I'm writing a novel set in nineteenth century Paris. Learning volumes about both writing and Paris. Why blog about it all? The tales of my travails may help others. Then again, they may not. At least you'll have laugh.